


The Chieftain's Son

by primeideal



Category: Redwall Series - Brian Jacques
Genre: Book: Martin the Warrior, Canon-typical breaking into song, Gen, Post-Canon, Yuletide 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 14:07:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2775806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeideal/pseuds/primeideal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Barkjon is laid up with a back strain, Brome's healing apprenticeship faces a new challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Chieftain's Son

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyoftheShield](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyoftheShield/gifts).



> For LadyoftheShield, who wanted to see these characters adjusting to life in Noonvale. Thanks to Matra Hammer for looking this over!

The apprentice looked down his nose at his charge. “You're, um, you're to...to stay in bed for the next two days. Absolutely no getting up to work, and, er, we'll have food sent up to you. If you're still feeling sore I'll look you over again then, but in the meantime, bed rest!”

Barkjon heaved a sigh. “If you say so.”

“Er—I'm not completely sure, I can have Poppy come in and have another look. It's just what I recommend.” 

“Somebeast will have to help with the morning chores, then. And tomorrow, I'm expected refurbishing the cart...”

“We'll be fine,” Brome repeated.

For a moment Barkjon almost looked stricken; then, he gave a grudging nod, and rolled over on his side. Buckler the mole had noticed him limping the other day, and Brome had made a studious examination before diagnosing a back strain. Without the rush of combat, healing required an altogether different approach. No longer did he scramble to apply bandages and poultices in the middle of the fray, but instead, what sometimes felt like guesswork in rummaging through all the possible maladies that could befall a beast in peacetime. How was he to know where to begin? By the end of the day, he sometimes felt like he was shivering worse than his patients. Poppy, the matron mouse who oversaw his apprenticeship, usually prescribed him her buttercup wafers at that point.

There was no quick fix in store for Barkjon, who gave another irritated twitch as he listlessly sought comfort. “And don't raise your paws too high up, you don't want to be straining your legs,” Brome added. “I'll get lunch sent soon.”

He trooped out of the squirrel's room and down to fetch some lunch of his own. Poppy recommended lots of greens for a healthy diet, and he felt compelled to follow in her footpaws, even if on feast days he would merrily join the young ones with their desserts, all sorts of childish memories tangled up amid the sweetstuffs. On the day, it was enough to gnaw on vegetables from the garden, and wave to any companions passing by. “Hullo there, Tullgrew?”

“Afternoon!” said the otter, biting into a damson plum. “How's the patient?”

“Not very,” said Brome. “It's like he wants to dust and tidy up all the morning chores.”

“I don't think...” she trailed off.

“You don't think you're going to finish the plums? Don't mind if I do.”

“I don't think he really _wants_ to, either. But he's used to it, and he enjoys the company.”

“Oh!” Brome gathered up a handful of rolls into a basket. “I suppose it would get very lonely up there, yes. Perhaps...well, I oughtn't invite Baby Bungo up there to keep him entertained, Poppy doesn't like little ones prattling around sickbeds, even if it's not catching. And he might be liable to break something. No...perhaps Celandine could perform some magic tricks for him?”

“Well, you'd have to ask her,” said Tullgrew. “But it—sounded like she's going to be busy editing some of Ballaw's scripts.”

“All right, then. Say, do you suppose Barkjon prefers pears or raspberries?”

“Why don't you bring along both, and let him choose!” 

“Oh, that's a brilliant idea!” He piled several of each onto a plate, testing to make sure he could balance it before finishing his own lunch.

This idea worked out better in theory than execution. When Brome returned to Barkjon's room, the squirrel was already up and about, toying with the windowsill. “What are you doing up?” Brome snapped.

“I can't sleep with the sun in my eyes. Look, it comes glaring through this way.”

“Well, you shouldn't have strained yourself by standing up.”

“What was I supposed to do, leave it be?”

“Of course; someone else would have come along to fix it.”

“And in the meanwhile? I just told you, I can't sleep.”

“I'll...bring something to read, if you'd like?”

“I suppose,” said Barkjon.

“Here you are, then. Pears or raspberries?”

“I...er...are there enough to go around for everyone else?”

“Yes, of course!” It seemed impertinent to bring up that most everyone else had already eaten.

“Er, well, then, I suppose raspberries...mm, but perhaps pears would be...well, as a healer, which do you recommend?”

“You're not _ill_ exactly, the diet doesn't matter.”

“Oh, if it's all the same to you, what am I supposed to do then?”

“Have both if you want?”

“Both?”

“Don't want them to go to waste.”

“There's a risk of wasting the food?” Barkjon's bad leg twitched again.

“Of course not, Ballaw will put them away if nobeast else does. But help yourself.”

“If you must. But do please tell the cart team I won't be along.”

“Of course,” said Brome, tramping out of the room but freezing up at the entrance. “Er. How did you want those shades?”

“Closed,” said Barkjon.

Brome turned back, lowering the blinds completely, before pacing downstairs and out to Noonvale's verdant expanses. In the heat of the day, all manner of beasts were working together and separately; mice stood on ladders to pick fruit, squirrels tended to young ones, and a handful of otters and moles were laboring together to elevate the frame of a cart. It was them that Brome walked over to join. “Hello there! Barkjon sends his regrets that he won't be back on the job for a couple of days—laid up with a sprain, he is.”

“Whew!” Keyla the otter took a moment to wipe his brow, crawling out from underneath. “Will he be all right?”

“If he stays in bed, yes.”

“Oh, don't worry about Barkjon, he'll put up with you.”

“How is the cart coming along?”

“Ah, quite well. If it weren't for Baby Bungo stealing our bolts we'd be farther along, no doubt, but the little rascal does like to eat nuts.”

Brome laughed. “If he swallows any of your parts, come running to me. I'll have him sorted out quicker than you can say hotroot-soup.”

“Hurr, you'm take care now,” said Buckler the mole, “Keyla hurr is a gurtly fast talker, burr aye!”

“So I've heard,” smiled Brome.

“Care 'ee furr a demonstration?” Buckler urged.

“I'll let you get back to work.”

“Hurr, that baint the spirit! Keyla, give us'ns a song!” Buckler demanded.

“Oh, I suppose,” said Keyla, closing his eyes for a moment. His rear paw beat at the ground, counting out a rhythm to himself. Then, he launched into the improvisation:

“Oh have you seen the chieftain's son  
A mouse so young and sprightly?  
His healing work is never done  
Neither by day nor nightly.  
For up he climbs and down he goes  
To make sure we're all resting  
He'll sniff you out, follow his nose,  
If his patience you're testing.  
And with no ifs or ands or buts  
He'll cure your indigestion  
If you go snacking on our nuts  
Not like that's my suggestion.  
So harken, mateys, to my tale  
Until you all may know  
About my comrade from Noonvale;  
Brome, son of Urran Voh!”

“Hoo urr!” Buckler applauded. “Oi do be gurtly inspoired to lift 'ee cart. On count of three?”

Brome blushed. “Don't be silly, Keyla.”

“Who, 'im? The h'otter? He wudden think of it, the gurt fool,” said Buckler, “ee'm a serious feller.”

As he made his way back, Brome stopped in to check on Ballaw, who was sewing a hat by himself. “Excuse me, do you have a minute?”

“That and plenty more, my good mouse,” said the hare, experimentally trying on the half-finished hat as the yarn draped down beside him. Setting it aside, he continued, “How may I be of service?”

“I was just wondering if you had any scrolls to loan out.”

“But of course! Do you care for a well-known script, or perhaps something of my original invention?”

“It's not for me. Something...established, will do.”

“Certainly! Wait a jiffy!”

As Ballaw bounded off, Brome looked around at the costumes strewn across the room. Another cape was being embroidered with ribbons around the neck and various patches on the hems for more theatrical flourishes, and the makings of a broad scarf were draped over a chair. Ballaw returned shortly thereafter, a scroll at the ready, tied off with a bow. “Here you have it,  _Gorse's Gauntlet!_ Now do take care, that's an old copy.”

“It won't come to harm. I—” How could he pledge his word, having no power over what Barkjon did? “Thank you.”

“My pleasure!”

Brome brought the scroll back up to Barkjon, who unwrapped it and held it gingerly. “And what am I supposed to do with this?”

“Read it, if you like. If it's not to your tastes...”

“It'll do, I suppose. But I can't read in the dark.”

Biting back any further commentary, Brome cast about for a candle. “Shall I light this for you?”

“Oh, I can do it.”

“No, stay where you are. I'll just place it by your table, here? So you can blow it out when you're done. Don't go setting the room on fire.”

“Can't you treat burns?”

“I...er...would prefer not to?”

“I'm only sporting. Go on, I'll be all right.”

Brome complied, leaving the old squirrel to begin squinting at the scroll through the dim candlelight. The memory of one fire-scarred building had been more than enough for both of them.

* * *

When Brome came to retrieve the scroll, Barkjon had already finished with it—or at least, gotten as far as he'd planned to read. “Not my cup of tea,” he said.

“Well, this might be!” said Brome, presenting him with an honest-to-goodness cup of tea, which Barkjon clenched in shaky paws. “Ballaw says it's better when Rowanoak does a dramatic reading, anyway.”

“Oh, is it? I suppose she'll want to put a dramatic reading on, someday.”

“She can wait, Brome said. “I'm not sure she'll have much of an audience.”

“The badger? With her voice and her memory, I'm sure she can spin a rousing yarn from all these tales. Your tribe will lap her up.”

“They love Rowanoak, of course. But all these tales, battles and feats of daring-do and whatnot...”

“Oh.” Barkjon set his tea down. “I'm sorry.”

Brome blinked. “For what?”

“Bringing this up. If it's a sensitive subject, here...I can see why you wouldn't want to hear those kinds of stories.”

Giving a nod, Brome went on, “I'll be back for lunch. In the meantime, wrap some ice in a bandage to keep cool if you need to and—no, don't stand up yet!”

“Oh, now you're giving orders?” Barkjon laughed. “All I wanted was to open the window. Silent as the pits in here, I could do with a friendly voice.”

“Let me get that!” Brome raced over to the window and flung it open again. Sure enough, the faint strains of Ballaw's dramaturgy came in on intermittent breezes. “You sure that's okay?”

“Of course, of course.”

“Strange,” said Brome, looking down on the figure of Ballaw, who was clearing a bevy of picnic tables; no doubt it was his turn to wash them, after disposing of any remaining leftovers. “You'd never think he had it in him...”

“Had what, lad? He's a hare, of course he can put breakfast away.”

“No. All these stories.” Brome paced over, taking the scroll back. “He seems like such a pleasant fellow, but to think of all the evil things he's heard of, that he brought here.”

Barkjon gave a wheezing cough. “You think he brought evil to Noonvale?”

“Well, yes. We'd never talked about all these such things. Before Marshank and Badrang and the battle...”

“You'd all known peace, of course. Wouldn't have heard of war...but that's not the same as _bringing_ evil here.”

“Don't you think?”

“If he'd brought some ballad about a dozen muffins to scarf down, that's not the same as him bringing muffins to share.”

“Of course not. Knowing Ballaw, he'd have already found his own batch to eat.”

“That he would, the ruffian. And if he told a story of flowers that dance and trees that sing, it doesn't make any of that real. So if he brings tales of evil, Noonvale hasn't opened itself up to bloodshed and woe any more than it had a season ago—perhaps you just recognize what the story means, if you can see temptation around you.”

“But we don't have any battles or anything like that. What's there to see?”

Barkjon laughed. “In the slave barracks we had little but the clothes on our backs and the scraps they threw us to feed, and we still found things to fight and distrust each other over. There was a vole...well, never mind that. I hear tell the corsairs who kept us chained had all manner of booty to fight over, jewels and plunder and the rest—and even they could accept kindness, when it was shown in a fight.”

“That was...different. I mean...”

“Never mind. Even here, clever beasts like you are savvy enough to pick a fight—if you wanted to. But the respect you bear towards your fellow creatures, that stops you from going into battle? Well, I suppose that's what makes this place worth defending.” He broke off. “That and the damson plums. No wonder Ballaw raves about them.”

“I suppose, yes,” said Brome. “Would you like some for lunch?”

“If it isn't too much trouble.”

“It won't be,” he promised. “I'll see you then!”

Brome made his way outdoors to find the cart still under construction. Buckler had cut himself while sawing off a piece of wood, and the mouse quickly tended to his paw. “You'll want to make sure that's washed, so you don't take ill from it.”

“Hurr aye,” Buckler muttered, wandering off to douse the wound.

“How far along are you?” Brome asked, as Tullgrew measured a wheel. “Will it be finished soon?”

“Before the season's out, of course,” she said.

“Is that when Ballaw and the others are leaving?”

“Leaving? I'm not sure. I don't think he'll go anywhere before he's composed his latest volume of monologues, and I think he wants to take advantage of the Noonvale...hospitality, as long as possible.”

“And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Are you moving out to the Broadstream, someday? Or is Keyla?”

Tullgrew laughed, setting down the wheel and tracing out where she wanted to start sawing. “I don't speak for Keyla! As for myself, well, I know the way back when I want good sailing, but I'm not used to the river life.”

“Oh. Beg your pardon. I thought perhaps...”

“He's a valiant comrade and the best of friends, but, no, I don't think he plans to go courting. No harm done—here, lend me a paw?”

With Brome holding the wheel in place, Tullgrew began slowly cutting out another sector of wood, testing it in her paws and then hurling it aside to a scrap pile.

“I only thought, with so many new people coming to rest and heal, they'd want to move on eventually,” said Brome. “Somewhere more exciting.”

Tullgrew turned, rummaging through a pile of supplies for a smaller knife to sharpen the edges. “A bit too crowded for you now, eh? All of us newcomers making things too busy around here?”

“That's not what I meant!” He looked down, plucking through the knives if only to make himself look useful.

“Easy, now,” she said. “Only a joke. You've all been so welcoming here—I suppose that's why so many of us want to stay.”

“It's not too boring?”

“As long as Ballaw has an audience to laugh at his jokes, I don't think he could find it boring at all. I certainly don't! And if it's not the good friends or the food or the beauty all around us, some beasts seem to have more particular reasons for staying around. I heard Pallum has his eye on the hogmaid, Teaslepaw is it?”

“Pallum? And Teaslepaw?” Brome spurted, almost dropping the tools he was sorting through. “You're joking again?”

“Oh, not this time,” she smiled, starting in on another section of the wheel. “She's very kind, isn't she? And he's quite brave. They suit each other well.”

“I suppose! It's just...Teaslepaw wants to be a mother someday, I always thought.”

“Well, perhaps if all goes well for her and Pallum, they can have hogbabes?”

“Pallum, a father? He spent so long at the mercy of the Squidjees, and he'd ever put up with kits of his own?”

“You'd be surprised what the seasons can do to a beast. Who can say?”

“I can't imagine what a little Pallum would look like. All stern and ready to order around the other beasts?”

“Ah, Brome!” It was Keyla's voice, as he hoisted another slab to where he could begin sawing out a wheel. “You sell yourself short, my friend; I think your imagination is more than up to the challenge.”

“I let Ballaw write the fanciful stories.”

“Children don't always take after their parents. You know that full well, I should think.”

There was no pretense of tools to sort or wood to stack, no way to deceive himself that he was being useful working on the cart. Brome rounded on the otters and was on his way to see if he could help prepare lunch when Keyla called “I'm sorry.”

Brome didn't turn, but held still, listening as Keyla went on.

“I...well, look at Barkjon and Felldoh. They're both brave, in their fashion, but Barkjon was tempered by his memories of peace. Felldoh only remembered Marshank's walls, and it made him—hard, inside. Dangerous.”

“I don't understand.” Brome turned again, pacing back. “How Barkjon could keep silent, when his son was dead...”

“He'd seen plenty of death and suffering in his time,” said Tullgrew. “They both had.”

“I reckon parents know when their children are grown and ready to strike out in a different direction,” Keyla added. “Felldoh was never cut out for a life of peace.”

“That's not true,” Brome snapped.

“Isn't it, now? You think Felldoh would have been content, growing old and taking his ease while tyrants still holed themselves up in castles somewhere?”

“That's not what I meant,” he said, hesitating and imagining Felldoh in Noonvale. No, the squirrel had been too built by fury, too attached to the weapon at his side. But even in Marshank, he had been different from the others. While plenty of slaves had smuggled away weapons to escape, they had been ready to cast them down when the fighting was over. Perhaps Felldoh's vengeance could not adapt, but so many of the others—from the martial Purslane to the snappish Geum—might all find a home in the northern valley. Noonvale was broad enough for all of them.

“Whatever did you mean, then?” Keyla asked.

“Whether fathers understand. My father was so afraid when I left home, and with good reason—I should never have come!”

“Do you really believe that?” Tullgrew asked.

Brome sighed. There was no telling what might have happened—maybe he and Rose could both have lived safely, but the rest of Marshank's slaves might still be living under Badrang's rule. Poppy had advised him, in her vocational capacity, to stop ruminating on it as much as he could, but it was easier said than done. “We'd been in a fight, before I left. It wasn't the first time I left home—I've sworn it'll be the last, though, I won't get in trouble again.”

“Sounds to me like you can't see anybeast fitting in here. Not even yourself.”

“That's not true! I love Noonvale, anybeast with a ready heart would be welcome here. The flowers and the ferns, the trees and the lodge—there's room for anyone. Even runaways like me!”

“Listen to him, Tullgrew,” said Keyla, “he loves Noonvale, that's been obvious for a long time. Maybe it's his father's Chieftaincy that doesn't feel quite as welcoming?”

“I love my father, too! And my mother, and—”

“He's a good mouse, isn't he? And a good leader. But the idea of him as chieftain...well, if you don't see yourself in that, yet, that could be scary. I'd be scared, if I thought someone was trying to make me into something I didn't want to be.”

“Maybe I want to be chieftain. Someday. I don't know...”

“An idea can be a powerful thing. There's no shame in that—look at Martin, even long after his father was dead, he went to fight Badrang, for the sake of the sword and a memory.”

“And you don't think he was foolish?”

“He's quite the warrior, our Martin,” said Keyla. “What do you think?”

“I agree. It was what he chose to do, him and—him and Rose both. Even if it's never what my father would have chosen, he had to understand that. Like Barkjon...but I don't understand him, either.”

“I'm sure your father still mourns for her. We all do,” Tullgrew said. “Nobeast said it was fair.”

And nobeast had, not even his father—it had been only Badrang who tried to deal the same injustice out to everyone, slave or vermin alike. Death had been capricious, striking down singers just as it felled warriors. But if there was room for anybeast in the shades of the silent forest, there was still plenty enough room for all sorts of creatures in the valleys of the living.

“Right, then,” Brome stiffened. “Need a knife, Keyla?”

“Think I have what I'm after!” The otter brandished a saw, starting work on the next wheel. “But thank you kindly!

Oh have you met the chieftain's son  
Who with his craft is handy?  
He'll help you out in cheer and fun  
Till all is fine and dandy.  
With food or drink or rousing tale  
He'll bring to ailing neighbors  
Until they're feeling fit and hale  
And go back to their labors.  
He'll soothe you when your mind is raw  
And jumps in fits and panics  
Or simply lend a helping paw  
To builders and mechanics.  
So listen, mateys, to my song  
And steady as you go–  
He's honest as the day is long:  
Brome, son of Urran Voh!”  


“Stop it, you flatterer,” Brome laughed.

“Aye, give it a rest,” said Tullgrew, “you'll break the wheel in half at that rate, use these measurements.”

“Your pardons,” said Keyla. “Right, then, show me how it's done!”

* * *

The following day, Barkjon was up and pacing even before Brome came into the room. “What?” he asked with a glare, before Brome could say hello. “You said I'd be ready.”

“How do you feel?” Brome asked.

“Tired. Hungry for your mum's cooking. And it does get a bit quiet up in here.”

Brome nodded. “Of course. And your back?”

“It's been worse.” Before Brome could interrupt, Barkjon held up a paw. “Much worse. I'd say it's well.”

“I can see a beast ready to go down and work with his friends,” said Brome, “and I'm not foolish enough to stop you. But you're not to exert yourself any longer than the others, do you hear? It isn't fair, and I'm sure Mum doesn't stand for unfairness when she's passing dinner out.”

Barkjon smiled. “I suppose that's a deal.”

He made his way towards the stairs himself, and Brome extended a paw, but Barkjon was already scurrying down on his own. Not as dextrously as a young squirrel, but he didn't seem to be in pain, and Brome watched him from the upper story, making sure he'd shifted his weight. Then he, too, descended.

Keyla was already packing away breakfast, and Barkjon took a seat across from him, helping himself to a smaller scone. Brome joined them at the end of the table, sitting next to Tullgrew. “Morning! Sleep well?”

“Not very,” she sighed.

“Oh. Well, if it's an issue, you know where to find me.”

“No, it's not...anything too bad. I just...I still have nightmares.”

Brome nodded. “I can believe that.”

“You too?”

“Not so much, myself. Only dreams that—” Dreams that felt real, with all manner of creatures living alongside him—sometimes Felldoh, sometimes Martin, even Hillgorse the hedgehog once or twice. Always Rose, and never once did anything seem wrong. Never until morning, and all the uneasy questions he had to ask himself, picking back his memories one by one until he remembered what was real.

“What?” Tullgrew interrupted.

“Nothing. Just...it makes sense.”

“It's not so bad by day. When I can smell the flowers on the breeze, hear the little ones playing, and I know where I am.”

“Really? Even in the daytime, I get...worried, sometimes.”

“It's only natural to get worried,” said Barkjon, “plenty to worry about, even here. Little things, uncertainties for the future. No one thinks that's too strange.”

“But I feel—without a weapon at paw, like somebeast could get me. It's ridiculous, I know, I was never like Felldoh—I didn't _want_ to fight and kill. But knowing I have nothing...”

“You're young,” Barkjon smiled. “It'll ease, with time. You have more seasons to grow here, seasons to learn and remember what it's like to be at peace.”

“Not having a weapon?” Keyla interrupted, finally persuaded to set down the pitcher of water he'd been refilling. “Is that what scares you?”

“I suppose,” said Brome, squirming on the bench.

“That makes sense. But...well, meet me after breakfast, and I'll show you something.”

“Something dangerous?” Tullgrew asked.

“Hardly. But something...something you should know about.”

The next few bites felt tasteless, but then the mousemaid Ferndew caught Brome's eye from across the table and held a quieting paw to her mouth. Grinning, she tossed a biscuit to her friend Hoopoe at the next table, who had to dive backwards to snag it out of the air and nearly bowled over Buckler before getting her balance. Barkjon heaved a sigh in mock outrage, but Brome couldn't help but giggle. As long as Keyla had a plan, things couldn't be too hopeless.

So at the end of the meal, he followed Keyla and Tullgrew outside, as Barkjon eagerly made his way to rejoin the others working on the cart. A canvas was sprawled on the grass, and Rowanoak the badger was painting a sigil in it. From that distance, Brome was too far away to tell for sure if it was merely the Rambling Rosehip Players insignia. Perhaps they were advertising a more permanent home—a troupe to call Noonvale's own, bearing with them countless stories.

“What did you bury out here?” Tullgrew asked, as Keyla led them to a patch of dirt marked by some old wire and a peeling wooden fence. “More weapons?”

“I still have a weapon with me,” Keyla said, his voice low, “as powerful as any, and wielded by greater heroes than I.”

“You can't!” Brome blurted. “Father would never allow it!”

“Well, I'm not going to walk around with swords in my paws. That'd only be a danger,” said Keyla.

“Then what are you saying?” said Tullgrew.

“I'm saying we should start digging.”

“You moved those weapons, in Marshank. Out from under my pallet,” she recalled. “And I never felt it?”

“You were exhausted from your work—not just what they put you through, but what you did for us,” said Keyla. “It can't be easy, remembering—but if you're well enough to remember your dreams, then that's a start.”

“And what is it you have out here?” Brome asked.

“You'll see,” said Keyla, taking a shovel and going to work.

Brome and Tullgrew joined him, moving the soil and digging deep into the ground. All the while, Brome squinted downwards, looking for anything gleaming in the darkness, but saw nothing, nor did his shovel turn up any tools. It wasn't possible. He'd seen it himself, how the Fur and Freedom Fighters had put aside their weapons—he'd even given them the order, and to his surprise, he remembered it feeling _right_ , that the weight of leadership was something he was ready for when peace was won. Keyla had helped gather the others together, and brought them back to Noonvale—and they'd been safe. Aching, mourning sometimes, but never in fear. There would always be something at his paw—a brace or a crutch to aid the injured, even a knife to go after cart wood or dinner. Even if there were no more weapons hidden below the ground, he kept shoveling. And all through the morning, Keyla trekked onward, pacing through the empty ground, whispering of a weapon nobeast else could see.

“That's that,” Tullgrew finally decreed, casting her shovel aside. It was midday, and the sun beat down on them once more, with no more shadows left to cast. “Are you going to show us something or what?”

“Hurr aye, you'ns've done a gurt job!” Buckler called, walking over with a small canvas sack in his paw. “Have 'ee summ lunch now.”

“What's that?” Tullgrew asked.

“Seeds, of course. Oi allus say, baint roight tunnellen deep furr these flowers. They need t' be buried close to the ground, t' grow.”

“This was all to help the moles till the ground?” she laughed.

“Well, we managed it much more quickly this way,” said Keyla.

“I'll say!” Brome smiled, looking back at the plot. He could already imagine the blossoms springing to life in a hundred colors—violets and golds and deep, wild reds. He walked forward, the otters joining him. “But what about the weapon?”

“I still have it,” said Keyla. “The very weapon that helped you and I escape prison.” Tullgrew looked on, skeptical, as Keyla continued, “And that your sister mastered time and again, never fearing any foebeast.”

“What do you mean?” Tullgrew asked.

“I think I know,” said Brome. Something that could survive any battle and endure the next challenge, so long as hope remained. “But you tell her, Keyla.”

“A song on my lips,” he said. “Like so...

Oh do you know my faithful friend,  
A kind and valiant healer?  
Though pains may mount and never end  
His work is all the realer.  
In times of peace or times of war  
He'll strive to heal the living  
But never, on a bloody shore  
Be fearful of forgiving.  
And when the seasons wait to bloom  
He'll dig and delve for hours  
To cast out dirt and make new room  
To host the coming flowers.  
So echo, mateys, far and wide  
Till every creature knows  
The tale in which we all take pride  
Of Brome, brother of Rose!”


End file.
